Those Who Do Not Wake
by tragic-comedy
Summary: Orion Black goes to visit a friend, and takes little Sirius along. An in progress work. Slight mention of same sex coupling. Tristan is my own character, but Orion and Sirius are those of JK Rowling.


**Those who do not wake**

He walked quickly, his son in tow. The snow had melted and the earth was mud. He looked straight ahead as he walked, his mind flooding with snatches of thoughts, too fragmented to be proper memories. He remembered one green eye and another brown one; the shape of someone's hands when the fingers relaxed –a small scar running up the thumb bone; the gradual hollow a cheek and the smooth plane of the side of the face; an awkward grin, and how the top row of teeth were slightly crooked…

He stopped abruptly, and the tip of his boot slipped. He had forgotten he had company. The raven-haired boy looked up at him questioningly. His grey woolen coat brought out the colour of his eyes too much, he thought, making him look far too somber for a person so small. His bottom lip was red and puffy like that of a fish –he pouted a lot, too. A voice nagged at the back of his mind. _You think too much, _someone once told him.

He took the little boy's hand, delighting in the way the chubby digits curled instantaneously around his own, and continued to walk. However, the pace was slower this time and felt he oddly calm, as if this minute amount of body heat was actually making a difference to his overall mood.

"Where are we going?" The boy chirped suddenly.

"To see a friend," He replied curtly. He snorted softly, amused, at how the short legs struggled to keep up with his longer ones; one stride was equal to four quick hops.

"Does he live in one of those houses?" Asked the boy, pointing to a series of rectangular marble structures. He looked up at his father. His eyes were too big for his face, the man decided. So big and round and innocent. It hurt him sometime to even look at the boy –It was though he was expecting something from him, something he wasn't sure he could give.

"Mm, not exactly…He lives underground."

"That's funny," the boy smiled oddly.

"He would've thought so too. See these? These are all the little houses." The man inclined his head towards the rows of stone slabs.

The boy seemed very excited at this; his eyes shone bright and he bared his little white teeth in a miniature smile. The two rows were so straight and perfect. Too perfect. Like dwarf-like ivory headstones.

"Do they all live together?"

"No. They're more like next door neighbours." He began to tire at the sound of his own voice; so bored, he seemed. When in fact he wasn't: he was merely a boring person.

"Do they have any children?" The little boy piped up, straining his neck to look up at his father. He hoped to grow that tall some day.

"Yes, but they're all hiding. They only come out at night." He scanned the area lazily and slowed his stride.

"Oh. I don't think I want to come here at night," said the boy quietly. He gripped his father's hand tighter. He felt a bit frightened –perhaps it was his father's scaredness that was rubbing on to him? The boy vowed to protect him.

"Don't worry, we won't have to, " Murmured his father, narrowing his eyes to read something buried in the melting snow and kneeling. "Here we are."

Orion's head pounded. Or maybe it was his heart. Maybe his heart was actually inside of his head –he couldn't tell. He felt like he was meeting Tristan all over again for the first time. He thought of something to say, to introduce himself, but knew that Tristan wouldn't hear it. In his mind, he saw not just an eye or a hand but a face –a beautiful face, the most beautiful face he had ever known and hands that knew him all over and lips that knew way to his heart but his heart was in his head, so no, that couldn't be right, what about his stomach? There were butterflies there, surely. He would have to throw them up or something.

He got up, straightened himself and swallowed thickly. _Great. Now there's a lump in my throat._

"Aren't we going to knock to see if he's home?" Said his son, who had been watching him intently. He had seen the way the lump had slid down his father's throat but remained along that pale column; how his forehead creased; how he had gripped the mud and snow in each hand; how his eyes were glazed and how he bit the inside of his cheek.

"No. They're all resting," he said dazedly, looking around. His nasal cavity was congested –perhaps he'd suddenly caught a head cold?

"…Wake up! Wake up! Wake up, everybody!" Cried the boy, scampering down the rows of stone.

"No! Sirius, come back. We don't do that here." He'd wait –the boy would come to him.

Sirius stopped in his tracks and turned around, maneuvering his feet to slide in the mud as he twirled. His father regarded him curiously: Narcissa took ballet lessons. Sirius would watch her sometimes. Sirius the ballerina. _Oh god, you are a twisted, twisted man._

"Why not?" Inquired Sirius. His cheeks were bright red.

"It's impolite."

"But why?"

"Because they're all dead."


End file.
